Alice Maurine Tippets Harrison
Alice Maurine Tippets Harrison was born at Georgetown, Idaho on November 21, 1913 to Joseph Maurice Tippets and Hannah Amorette Wixom. She was the 3rd child in a family of 13 children. This family was very close. There has always been much love and loyalty between them. They have always been very happy when they are able to be together. At the time of the death of Grandpa Tippets, he had 113 direct descendants. Mother was preceded in death by her mother in 1946 and her father in 1970 and her brother Ray last year. She is survived by 7 brothers and 4 sisters.
Mother's formal education was all at Georgetown, Idaho where she attend-ed elementary and high school. She and her brothers and sisters went to school by horse and buggy. They lived 4 miles from school and if a horse was lame they walked. But her education never ended. She loved to read and study and did so at every opportunity even to the last days of her life.
I am sure she began her life of service in her home with her parents and brothers and sisters. No stranger was ever within their gates who turned away without being fed and cared for. During the Depression many relatives and strangers were ministered to in their home, When mother was about 12 years old she began to spend some summers helping at the homes of relatives who needed assistance in Franklin and Preston, Idaho and Osmond, Wyoming.
She loved parties and dancing and being with people. She was always actively involved in everything around her. It was during one of these summers (1932?) that she met and fell in love with Leslie Alfred Harrison.
He courted her and on August 15, 1933, they were married in the temple for time and eternity in Salt Lake City, Utah. Dad had the house built and ready to move into when he brought mother home as a bride. All but one summer of her married life was lived in that same house.
To this union were born 8 children—2 boys and 6 girls. At first the house had only 3 rooms but as the children came and grew the house had to grow also. Rooms were added to the front, the back, upstairs and down. Whenever they could, Dad and Mother spent time and money fixing it up — and this winter—together, they paneled the living rooms. Mother always had many houseplants and they grew in profusion under her hand. Like the plants, her children grew and became a joy to her. Though we are spread far and wide, our every accomplishment was an event in her life. She was always proud of my dad and each achievement in his life was a source of pleasure to her. She worked hard to help him successfully carry out his responsibilities. During all this helping of her family, she always had time for compassionate service for others, caring for those in need. She thought it a privilege not a burden to care for her father and Earnest. In addition she held many positions and had many activities of her own. She was in the Stake Relief Society and once on Stake MIA. She was President of the ward Relief Society and Primary. She was a member of the Ward education committee, a teacher in all the auxiliaries of the church, chorister, choir member, and visiting teacher for 42 years in Osmond Ward. She loved the gospel and had a strong testimony of the truthfulness of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
She was involved in community service — a member of the fair committee many times, a member of the county planning committee, several positions in the local and county DUP. She was an enumerator for the census for 20 years. She wrote the Osmond news for the Star Valley Independent for over 20 years. She prepared and served banquets. We think the number of quilts she made for her family and others would number somewhere near 200.
Her life has been full and useful. If she ever did anything to hurt anyone it was not intentional. Above all she was our mother. She wanted the best for us and she worked hard to assure that we would have the things of true worth in our lives.
A few years ago I was home for a summer and was asked by the R. S. of Osmond Ward to give a tribute to my mother. I would like to give that same tribute to her again today.
There's one lady in this world who means the most to me.
Her looks are not too different from others you my see.
But in her I see a beauty that others may not know
She'll hold a spot within my heart wherever I will go.
She taught me all the useful things I need to live my life.
Her life has not been easy—she's had many hours of strife.
Her parents and 12 brothers and sisters helped her learn to serve
For her husband and 8 children life and happiness she preserved.
The life of service she has led has given me the goal
To try to become like her with all my heart and soul.
She’s held nearly all positions that a woman's allowed to hold
She performed her duties faithfully in sickness, health, and cold.
She supports her husband in a thousand different ways
Twice in the bishopric—when they were young and now again today.
The number of cows she's milked are too numerous to mention.
To lighten his large load was always her intention.
There always have been children everywhere she went
With her own, her grandchildren and yours, untold hours she has spent
To teach them to love each other and the gospel is her wish
She's thrilled when her little primary girls each leave her with a kiss.
For many years of her life her back has been a bother
But nearly always she's been able to go on one way or other.
When she was young she loved to dance and be always in the action
To be with happy people was to her a great attraction.
Her quilting talents are known abroad in several different states
Her reputation has been growing with every quilt she makes.
The ones I have that she has made will always be a treasure.
The miles of stitches she has sewn would take a while to measure.
If ever you should want a friend to help in time of need
I'd recommend you call her and she'd be there at full speed
She's made a million casseroles and a hundred dozen cakes
Or somewhere near those numbers for those who've had bad breaks.
When I look all around the world here's not one single other
Whom I would rather have near me, and proudly call my mother.
My mother died last Sunday, May 25, 1975 at 12:30 pm. We all miss her terribly but we have been granted assurance she has been called to a greater service and is happy. May God grant that her memory will bring satisfaction and fulfillment to the lives of each of us here today.
The Lord said, “Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die... and it shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them.”
1968
Merry Christmas from the House of Harrison
As the year draws to a close we can't help looking back to see just what has happened during the twelve months just past. Have we accomplished as much as we planned? Have we been a little more thoughtful and kind to all mankind than we were last year? Are we doing the things of most worth with our time, talents, means, and thoughts? Or are we wishing we could say that we could have tried just a little harder and accomplished a lot more? These are some of the thoughts I have had today as I was thinking of all my loved ones.
In thinking of our family my mind led me to our first-born, NaDee, and her professor husband, Jack, now living at Honolulu, Hawaii, where he is heading the Dept. of Agricultural Economics at the U of Hawaii, and she, with the last of their 6 children in school, has gone back for more education herself. It was so nice to have them come to Star Valley for the summer.
Next comes Darlene and her fine husband, Charles (Chuck), living at Billings, Montana, where he is an electronics engineer, working for MIT (Philco). They are buying a farm and raising Herford cattle. All their 3 sons are now in school, also, and Darlene does much of the machine work on the ranch. They sold their trailer house and bought a home this year.
Marilyn and husband Duane, are doing very well in their building and hardware business in Salt Lake City (Granger), Utah. Along with their 4 children they spend many weekends out on the lakes and rivers in their camper and with their boat have many happy hours water skiing. An enjoyable sight this summer at Bear Lake was their girls 12 and 10 getting up on their skis together and circling the lake several times without falling.
Virden, a student at Purdue University, lives at Lafayette, Indiana. He finished his studies this summer and is now working on his dissertation for a Ph.D. in Ag. Econ. and will be in Washington D.C. for the next few years. He along with his sweet and talented wife Jean and their 5 children made the long trip home this summer to be with the family. They have the youngest of our 21 grandchildren.
For the first time we have a married child living in the same town as we do. Adele and her husband, Noel, are now living in Grandma Harrison's home with their 3 children. She is having great fun learning to run a computer in an office. She also does all kinds of office work. Noel works in the factory where they make Polaris snowmobiles.
Dennis and Vicki are both students at the University of Wyoming at Laramie. He is a senior and she a junior. He is still looking, but Vicki has found her Mr. Right (Don Cutler) and they are making plans for next summer, probably August. She got a pretty diamond for Christmas. Dennis will be in the Army next year with a commission.
And finally, Karla, our youngest. She is a high school sophomore. She likes to be on the honor roll, was initiated into the honor society, likes sports, dancing, and music.
We were surprised and pleased when Leslie was called again to serve in the Osmond Ward bishopric (1st coun.) last July. Along with my job as Relief Society President we don't find too many spare moments. We have members of our family in about every church organization and most of the boys are in Cub Scouting and one is well on his way in scouting to be an Eagle. We have several musicians, dancers, and singers as well as a few artists. What a blessed family!
So to all our friends, relatives, and casual acquaintances we wish you a great abundance of precious things—health, happiness, enduring friendships, and a feeling of sweet and great humility in our hearts and we repeat as someone has said, "The language of friendship is not words but memories." May each of us, in the New Year, be able to do the things in our plans that will be of greatest worth.
Love to you and yours,
Leslie and Maurine
(In 1967, Maurine T. Harrison signed up for a home study writing course with Famous Writers School. These are some of the pieces she submitted for her assignments.)
These first two stories, Boy and Dog on a Hilltop, and The Head of the Statue of Liberty, were written from her impressions of pictures given in the lesson.
BOY AND DOG ON A HILLTOP
Never was there a more appropriate name for my friend than Pal. I knew the minute we met that he was for me—his brown hair so sleek and shiny, his walk so dignified, his posture straight yet relaxed. Watching him run made me think immediately of rabbits on forest trails.
We were inseparable. Together we sat on the porch steps, climbed Knob Hill or played throwing and chasing sticks for hours. Although meat and milk were good foods for growing bodies, I still preferred peanut-butter sandwiches with jelly. These were also Pal’s favorites.
Cleanliness was something else we saw eye to eye. We resisted bathing with equal fervor. Rolling in the grass or sloshing through mud puddles ended in scoldings, but was worth it.
Once on a Saturday fishing trip to Cub River I spotted a rabbit and instantly went for it calling Pal as I ran. On returning from the chase, although I shouted repeatedly, Pal didn’t come. Thinking he’d return momentarily I lay in the cool willow shade and dozed.
The sun had set when I awoke. Jumping up I headed for home on the run, then remembered Pal and resolved not to return without him. In a frenzy, I ran back and forth calling him until I was completely exhausted. It was almost dark when the car drove up and stopped by the bridge. As the door opened, I saw Pal jump out and scramble down the steep bank to the river’s edge. In one bound we were together.
Yes, never was there a better friend for a dog than my boy, Pal.
HEAD OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY
Great tears coursed down his wrinkled face as Morris, with hand held high, had pledged allegiance to his newly adopted country. For five years he’d been waiting for this moment when he could say, “I am an American citizen.”
Over the years he’d had mixed feelings about renouncing his homeland—the place of his birth, where his forefathers had lived and died, where he’d met and married his dear wife, the mother of his children, where this same wife was now buried and the realization that he, in a new land, wouldn’t be laid beside her in death.
And yet, this same fatherland hadn’t been kind to him. Being of Jewish ancestry, he’d been hated, tortured and imprisoned. Finally, he’d left all past distress behind and with a vision beyond to a world of new experience, had decided through the urging of his daughter and her fine husband and son, to spend his remaining days in the United States.
Well he remembered the day the boat had docked, how his grandson, Alex, had insisted on welcoming him from the Statue of Liberty at which he knew his grandfather would be looking. Alex had climbed the many steps and had waved his flag furiously and shouted at the top of his voice, “Hey, Grandpa! Grandpa! Welcome to America!” It mattered not that his grandfather nor anyone on the ship could hear him; he waved happily and enthusiastically.
Now, as Morris received his citizenship papers, it was as if he were hearing, loud and clear, the words as Alex had shouted them. “Welcome to America, Grandpa!”
EMPTY WASTE BASKETS (a true story)
As the newscaster announced a bill prohibiting outdoor trash burning, my mind flashed back to the last time I burned papers in an open bonfire. Just remembering sent a chill down my spine.
After lighting the fire I realized the slight breeze was getting stronger and there could be danger to buildings nearby. I decided to quench the fire as there were burning scraps of paper flying in the wind. I started for a pail and discovered a tiny fire burning in some dry weeds. Hurrying to the milk house and grabbing a bucket in each hand, I dipped them both at once into the brimming milk cooler and ran to the fire. It had now spread in all directions to about three feet in diameter. I splashed on the water hurriedly and raced back for more, this time turning the taps on full force. Time after time—running both ways—I poured water on the fire, but realized it was a losing battle and that while I was wetting one side the other side was spreading rapidly.
In my mind’s eye I could see the dry old chicken coop, now used to store bedding straw, go up in flames, and that wasn’t the worst! The barn, granary and new coop would go as well, also a load of hay recently piled there. Just over the fence a neighbor’s barn was in the line of wind and would surely be burned along with a partly filled hay shed.
In desperation I started to the house to call the fire department, but went back to the buckets instead as the wind was getting stronger. My husband was working in a nearby field. The tractor was headed my way and I thought he likely had seen me and was coming to my aid. As he reached the fence I hailed him. He merely waved his hand in greeting. The smoldering fire was invisible to him.
Across the road a neighbor and his wife drove onto the highway. Surely they could see that I desperately needed assistance and would call the firemen, but no, they were looking in the other direction at some cattle.
Frantically realizing there was no help available, I tried to hasten knowing I was alone with my problem. No, not alone---. I had needed help before and had found it kneeling quietly and supplicating the Lord in reverence. Now, however, I ran for more water, praying aloud as I ran.
The fire was about twenty feet across, but I had a splendid idea. As I poured water from each pail I scraped the wet earth back over the burned area. It spread no more. Back and forth I rushed realizing my strength was ebbing. However, I was calmer and saw that I was actually winning the battle. I slackened my pace and realized I had witnessed a small miracle in answer to prayer.
Yes, trash burning is such a simple, easy task, but I never again burned it without a proper incinerator.
EASY ENOUGH FOR A CHILD (another true story)
They say there must always be a time when one stops being a child and begins acting grown-up. This was jarred home to me quite emphatically not long ago when I decided I could ride a motorbike.
“Look, Terry, Grandma is going to ride the Honda around the house,” five-year-old Debbie, excitedly jumping up and down, announced to her brother.
“Okay, here goes!” I said with false confidence as I stepped on the gear pedal and moved slowly forward. As I did so I felt a moment’s panic, but here I was driving along. I thought of the man falling twenty floors and as he passed the tenth he said, “All’s well so far.” All wasn’t well with me, however, as I was getting to the fence faster than I was making the turn.
“Put your feet back on!”
“Turn!”
“Turn, Grandma!”
“She’s going to get hurt!”
I didn’t hear any of these remarks and not once did I think of the brake. In making the first turn I had accelerated the gas on the hand feed. In a split second I remembered my sister who had jumped from a motorbike her son was driving and how seriously her leg had been cut on the license plate. Well, I wouldn’t jump off.
Hitting the fence, the machine tipped over. I reached over and shut off the gas that had been pushed on full force by the net wire. My watching audience, husband, daughters, and grandchildren were instantly by my side. In turning the key off it was discovered that the hand brake had been pulled on as the gas had been. Otherwise, the power of the engine, no doubt, would have taken it and me through the net and barbed-wire fence.
“Are you hurt?”
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Oh, Mama, I’m sorry I insisted you could ride it.”
My left leg, I knew, was hurt. The pain was not excruciating but was very intense. Blood was running down the front and already it was swollen and purple from the knee to the instep. An ugly, red splotch was also appearing at the side of my knee, a burn.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I lied. “It’s all right. It’ll be fine.” We walked into the house. Very bravely, I wasn’t going to let anyone see me limp.
I sat with cold compresses on my elevated leg and pondered over just what I’d done wrong. Without a doubt, almost everything I did was wrong. The nearest I’d been to motorcycles was to ride ‘side-saddle” on a Harley-Davidson forty years ago behind my sister’s beau. It was about as sensible as thinking one could swim after watching the Olympics.
Yet that is exactly what I’d done. I’d been watching first one and then another all day riding the two motorcycles in the nearby field. There was my 16-year-old daughter, who had never ridden one until today, riding like a pro, and my two grand-daughters ages 12 and 13, speeding over bumps so they could jump the machine, and there was my husband circling the field at a slow and easy pace. Did I think that with a half-minute’s instruction it would be easy?
Other family members had learned to ride on a straightaway, while I’d been trying to make a circle around the house dodging fence, clothesline, picnic table and children. Well, I’d just as well have forgotten the other obstacles. I hadn’t even made it past the fence.
For the next two weeks I pretended my hurt wasn’t painful, but was careful to keep it well protected. And even though it’s easy enough for child’s play, someday I’m determined to learn to ride that Honda if I get another chance.
THE BEGINNING
Fourteen-year-old Karla was just closing the front door as I entered the living room, dust cloth in hand. “Boy! Am I glad that day’s over!” she said sinking into the overstuffed chair, long legs dangling over one arm and head resting on the other, giving a mock picture of one completely at the end of her rope.
“Now, that’s a strange remark on your first day,” I teased. “Especially after I assured you that high school was so much fun.”
“Well, if this is a sample of the next four years I think I’ll just quit right here. I wonder if winning the trip to the State Fair was worth missing the first two days of school.”
“You went so early this morning I thought you could get everything all straightened out before school started,” I reminded her. “I thought you registered last spring. Didn’t you get the classes you wanted?”
Slowly the day’s events unraveled. “Well, first off, the Home Ec. class was filled, so they put down that I would take French that period. I want to take French sometime, but not when I’m a freshman, but I had to get a release because I’d been assigned.”
The French teacher was my friend and I wondered how he’d taken her refusing the class. “Oh, he was all right, but said, ‘I didn’t think you’d take it.’ I took my French release and went to biology class, another not previously registered for and the teacher said, ‘What did they send you here for? There aren’t enough books for the ones we have now.’ He did let me stay, though. No telling when I’ll get a book. There’s another girl without one, too.
“Our English class had just begun when the principal announced over the intercom that all students not previously registered last week should meet in room 31. I asked Miss Reeves if I could go and she said, ‘Not yet.’ When the class was half over she remembered and let me go. I got to room 31 and the instructor there complained because I was late.”
“You did have a day, didn’t you?” I sympathized. “I guess nothing but good can happen after that bad start.”
“Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I met some groovy kids and the bright spot of the day was Seminary class. Mr. Garner thought I looked familiar. Remember, he talked in Church last summer? As I came into the room he quietly said, ‘Do I know you?’ I smiled and nodded. Still with a quizzical look he leaned over and whispered, ‘What’s your name?’ I whispered back, ‘Karla Crane.’ He remembered me then. I think I’ll like that class. He’s a very inspiring teacher. Anyway, whenever he spoke to me for the rest of the class period he’d whisper. It was hilarious.
“Getting my locker was another headache. The registrar said there wasn’t a single locker left, but many were sharing the double lockers. She finally found a girl I knew from last year, so that turned out Okay. You should see those halls between classes and especially at noon. And that’s something else again—lunch. We hurried to get to the cafeteria and when we finally made it up front they had half-cooked, soggy pizza! The buttered corn wasn’t bad and the cherry cobbler was delicious, but the girl just ahead of me took the last of the milk so I had to have chocolate. It just didn’t go too well with the pizza or pudding.”
“How were the kids for dress?” I asked.
“You know, that was really a shock to me. I didn’t see one mini-skirt or one long-haired boy. I suppose any tendency to them was nipped in the bud the first day of school. I heard the kids were warned they’d be sent home or to the barber if they didn’t uphold school policy of no extremes.”
Continuing my dusting, I said, “I’m glad the important things in school are fine and that the day ended better than it started for you.”
“Well, hardly. Lynn has a new bus and I wasn’t watching and slipped when I got in and skinned my shin and ruined a good pair of nylons, and then it was so crowded I stood up all the way home. They’re going to put part of the kids on Bert’s bus tomorrow, so it won’t be so hectic.”
“Oh, well,” she said. Then in one rolling movement she stood up, walked to the piano, sat on the bench and ran her slender fingers over the keys in the lilting melody of the “Rustic Dance” and one could almost feel the tensions of the day drop away and a pleasant relaxed feeling fill the room in a resolution that tomorrow was another day and she was determined that it would be a better one.
THE RETURN
After a few years absence from your home town, returning is comparable to meeting a friend you haven’t seen for a long time. The nostalgia of seeing things almost forgotten, but still familiar helps you recall signposts along the way. You’ve been traveling for hundreds of miles in unfamiliar territory and suddenly realize that things you’re seeing are things you’ve seen before and you’re within two miles of your destination—the old homestead.
You are at the outskirts of Newtown where the black-topped highway is split down the middle with a raised median strip, used for walking between lanes of traffic. Jay-walking is not prohibited here. The elk horn arch spanning the center street is said to be the largest in the world, containing 3,000 antlers gather from feed grounds after being shed—a process through which elk pass annually. At each end of the arch is a gateway bow, squatting like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
As you pass under the arch you find you are halfway through the country metropolis whose major business district is contained in one block. Just beyond the city limits you wonder at the great number of yellow and black agricultural spray planes parked in what seems to be the center of a farmer’s alfalfa field. You are shocked to discover that this tiny hamlet has an airplane factory and realize these planes have just come from the assembly line.
You’ve reached the farming district now, where dwellings are small and scattered. Each farm has a large barn and a larger hayshed stuffed with recently harvested crops ready for the winter feed lots. Holstein cattle dot the pastures black and white and you know you’re in dairy country.
As you gaze west you see miles of sprinkler pipes shooting out their life-giving moisture to the second-crop hay. You’re rounding the big bend at last and notice that one of the largest and most productive farms in the area is being converted into a golf course and is being worked by several large pieces of road-building equipment.
Across the highway the beaver farm with its individual cement houses is on the corner section next to the old Swiss cheese factory on the Fairview lane. The factory is changed now into an auto salvage and car repair shop. The large cottonwood trees banking the old Dry Creek spillway cut a wide diagonal line down through the center of the wrecked-car lot. Only at high water runoff time is there water in the creek anymore.
As you begin to apply your brakes, you find on your right the frame house has been replaced by two ultra-modern fifty-foot mobile homes. With signal lights blinking, you turn left into the shale approach and stop beside the blue and white house. This is where you had begun the trip you thought would last a week but has actually kept you away from the farmstead for five long years.
EXPANDING ON THE SENTENCE: “The Car Hit the Tree”
Three-year-old Noel, Jr. climbed into the front seat of his daddy’s company car and turned on the ignition key. The car, being in low gear, leaped forward with the small boy at the wheel. His parents in the house, hearing the car start, bounded to the door and stood in stark horror as they watched the rear wheels disappear behind the house. They knew they were helpless to do anything. Then as they raced to the corner of the house, they heard a grinding thud as the car hit the low-branched pine tree and stopped.
UNUSED QUOTE FROM GRANDSON: 3 year old Lance came dragging his coat across the floor, knowing he should have it on but no time for it and declaring, “My is going out to help catch she.”
JUNE
“Okay, son, what’ll it be, breakfast or lunch?” The words spoken by Policeman Condos were kind and meaningful to ten-year-old June. It was eleven a.m. and the boy hadn’t eaten for eighteen hours. Already, Mike, the diner proprietor, was mixing a cup of warm milk with strawberry flavored powder which he knew would sit well in a hungry boy’s stomach. June recalled as he stirred the granules that his six-year-old twin sisters referred to it as ‘pink cocoa.’
Yes, it did taste delicious and that was a little strange because he considered ‘pink cocoa’ a sissy drink. In fact, it was the thought of being a sissy that had gotten him into all the difficulty in the first place. It was the last week of school and his room was going on a hike into the nearby hills. June had anticipated the fun he and his friends would have. And then it happened: his teacher, Miss Bruce, always friendly and understanding, was taken ill and a substitute would replace her for the remaining few days. Even at first glance, one could tell that old bespectacled Mrs. Beal would be a definite drawback on a hike. But here she was, going down the roll picking leaders for groups.
“June Asbury,” she read without looking up. “You will take your group of girls around the point to Crow Spring.” Quiet titters were heard. “John Bart, you and the boys will climb the hill and come down the shale slide to the spring.” When the soft giggling continued, Mrs. Beal inquired and was told that June was a boy. Although she quickly corrected her mistake the students didn’t let it drop there. At recess they teased June for being “one of the girls” until he was more angry and distressed than he had ever been in his life. His resentment was growing to include his parents who were the cause of this disgrace for calling him June.
After supper, he went to his room intending to work on his rock collection, but was uninterested. Still smarting from embarrassment, he put a few clothes into his bandana and decided to leave, have a hike of his own, and maybe never return to his home town.
He was chilled when Officer Condos, one of a search party, had rescued him, but spending a night alone on a ledge unable to get either back up the mountain or down had given him a lot of time to think of the school situation. He would have laughed, too.
However, he was relieved with the knowledge disclosed by Sgt. Condos that his parents had decided it was time he should be called by his given name, George Edward Asbury, even though it had seemed to them such a clever idea to call him June, both for his birth month and Junior after his father. It was also time he answered Officer Condos. “Would it be all right if I had some ham and eggs and a piece of that lemon pie?”
AN UNFINISHED STORY: (a few words were added by the editor where necessary to get the meaning)
“Come back here, you damn dog!” The words were shouted by Dad B. standing barefoot in the doorway with only his wool logger breeches on. There was no malice or hate in his words, though they sounded bad. The sight before him was funny and unbelievable. Around the house bolted a young doe deer. Right on its heels was Boots, the mongrel dog. Making a wild dive for Boots was Mother B. trying to catch the dog yet stay out of the path of the deer.
It had all started when 8 year old Alan excitedly shouted, “Mother! Come see the deer! It looks like it’s caught in the fence.” He came two steps at a time downstairs one early morning in January. It was a bleak, crisp and cold morning in Wyoming. The thermometer had dipped to 20 below zero.
Slowly and steadily Alan’s brother, Ron, made his way to free the stranded doe. Pushing a wire down and holding the other up, he carefully released the frightened animal, which, instead of going up the nearby hill, started for the house on a slow trot. It was just beautiful with those big ears cocked forward and the graceful legs hesitantly jumping through the deep snow.
Just about the time it got to the trail the dog saw it, too, and started for it. Ron yelled but Boots wouldn’t mind. He wasn’t going to be denied that chase when his prey was so close. The cabin being so close to the mountain, you’d naturally think the deer would climb up away from human smell, but around the house it sprung, jumping ten or twelve feet at a time. That doe went around the house three times, the dog right behind it and Mother B. trying to grab the dog every time it passed. The kids had jumped out of bed and with noses pressed against the windows were watching the excitement.
WHY I AM STUDYING WRITING
Thoughts of why I’m studying writing have been crowded out constantly by thoughts of doubt and questionable talent; but then I’m reminded of what someone said, that “A man is no greater than his thoughts, decisions, and faith.” Could this also apply to a fifty-three-year old grandmother?
When in high school, my favorite subject was English, especially literature, and for several years I read at least three books a week. Then as I was married and my family was growing, I was unable to continue reading, except for children’s stories—of which I have a great store—and my reading was limited.
Now, with my family mostly grown I am again able to spend more time doing things I have been wanting to, such as studying, reading and writing. As the family has been growing up, we have had some choice experiences, both serious and comical. I can truly testify that with a family of eight there is ‘never a dull moment.’ I have often spoken of compiling these experiences in a book. Such a book would likely be interesting to the family written in any way, but someone with training should be able to write and hold the attention of other readers. I think I have some interesting ideas to impart to others and have wanted to learn how to express these things in writing so they would benefit from my observations and experiences.
Already in this course I have been told many times to write of things I know; so with this in mind and because of the encouragement of my family and friends, as well as Joe Morrow, Famous Writers representative, who called on me and went over my original test, insisting that according to my answers I did have definite possibilities, I was persuaded to enroll and so far, as I have read and studied the course, I’m very enthusiastic. Already I’ve been inspired with several ideas for writing later on in the course and I’ve had some enjoyable hours reading and analyzing the books I’ve read for home study.
I have written several talks to be presented in church meetings and have planned and presented road show acts and programs to be given in family reunions, Christmas programs, and PTA meetings. I have neglected to keep writing, however, because as I have observed, we usually do the things requiring attention now and don’t trouble ourselves about something we may never be called on to present.
I am gaining a greater insight into what might be my own possibilities as I contemplate the lessons ahead. I am reminded of what my six-year-old son lamented on the first day of school, that “I’m afraid I don’t know enough words.” As likely has been observed, I have a limited vocabulary. But I am willing to learn and study. Otherwise I never would have enrolled in such an ambitious course.
A collection of favorite poetry follows.
When Mother Had the Aid
Mother'd simply have a fit if she knew I had heard,
But honestly I didn't tell a soul a single word.
You see, I heard her talking to her sister, my Aunt Sue.
She said she didn't want it, but, Land, what could she do?
She said she knew she had it, (she meant the Ladies Aid),
Oftener than anybody else. Those are the words she said.
She said of course she'd take them but really she'd be hung
If she could have her ruthers, and then right up she sprung
And says, “We'll have to clean this house from top way down to toe,
For when those Ladies’ Aiders come, no tellin' where they'll go.”
She says that's one thing makes her mad to have them run about
Lettin' on they want to help when they're just spying out.
Does she clean up her pantry shelves, and is her stove all blacked,
And are her dishes nice and fine, or are they old and cracked.
And Auntie Sue said, "Darn it!" She almost never swears,
"We'll have to borrow dishes and we'll have to borrow chairs,
For you can bet there'll be a crowd, they'll manage to get here,
I wish it would just pour," she said, "so no one could come near."
Then Father, he spoke up and said, "Just let me know the day
So I can make arrangements to be out of the way.
For it's cackle, cackle, and it's cackle, cackle, cack,
If I should be a mile away, I’d hear them there and back."
Then he went out and slammed the door, but they just said and smiled,
"Thank goodness he's disposed of, but oh, that awful child!"
That's mostly what they call me, 'less there's company around,
Once I thought I’d run away and get all dead and drowned.
Well it came and was the day, and I hung ‘round and played,
For always there are cakes and things and sometimes lemonade.
And Auntie Sue and mother got awful nice and kind,
But I knew I’d catch it later if I wasn't good and mind,
And I didn't let them see me till I heard the folks arrive,
And then I edged in kind of shy, but my land sakes alive,
'Twas Dearie this and Dearie that, and how they smiled and smiled,
And I surely did get tickled when they called me "Honey child."
Well when mother and Aunt Sue had gone to get the things to eat,
I thought I’d entertain the folks and be real kind and sweet.
So I said to Mrs. Perkins, when they'd both of them gone out,
"Is that the awful old silk dress that mother talks about,
That you have worn a hundred years, and she says is such a fright?"
My land, you should have seen her face, it did look queer all right,
I thought she didn't want to talk and I have got some pride,
So I walked very dignified around the other side
And took a seat by Miss McPrim, a real dried-up old maid,
And trying hard to be polite, I spoke right up and said,
"Please tell me is it true, you're crazy for a man,
My mother says you set your cap for every one you can?"
She looked at me and stared at me till I felt all froze.
She must have not liked what I said, or something, I suppose.
So I talked to Mrs. Peterson about her only child.
I told her that my mother said she drove the women wild,
Always telling she's so smart, and she can talk and sing.
I told her that my mother said she was the freshest thing.
And that she needed to be spanked and showed her place she did,
And that she'd like a chance just once to shake that precious kid.
You know, those ladies sat so still, they never said a word,
Then, "Fools and children tell the truth," said one; that's all I heard.
And when they kept on being still, I thought I’d better speak,
So I said, "Father wasn't right 'bout what he said last week.
He said that he could hear you folks at least a mile away,
But he could stand that if there was some sense to what you say,
But he was wrong, for you're as still as anyone could be."
And do you know those ladies looked like they could strangle me.
Well when the Aid was over, and we were all alone,
Mother just dropped down and said, "Thank goodness they're all gone,
But didn't they look funny when they came to say goodbye,
And didn't they act awful queer," she said, and wondered why.
But I slipped to the kitchen and didn't hear the rest,
For all the places that I like, the Ladies' Aid is best.
Mother's Lap
I’m not as big as I will be,
I’m des a little chap
An' when I cry I can't tell why,
I run as fast as I can fly
An' climb on Muvver’s lap.
My muvver's lap's the nicest place
In all the world I know;
In it I creep and fall asleep
An' lie rolled up all in a heap,
An' 'en she hugs me so.
She says that soon I’ll be too big,
Too large for her to hold;
How that can be I cannot see,
An' des a little boy like me
An' only four years old.
I know I’ll cry, I know I will
When I’m a great big chap,
If I can't sit a little bit
An' not have folks make fun of it
‘Cause I’m in Muvver's lap.
Walt Filkin
Foolish Questions
You've heard of foolish questions, and no doubt you've wondered why
A person who will ask them, will expect a sane reply.
Did you ever bring a girl a box of candy after tea,
And notice how she grabs it and then says, "Is this for me?"
Foolish question you should answer when you can,
"No the candy's for your mother or for Joe, the hired man.
I just wanted you to see it, now I’ll take it all away."
Now that's a foolish question that you'll hear most every day.
Or if you’ve been away from town, for several days or weeks,
What is it that a friend will ask, the first time that he speaks?
He'll rush along to meet you, and he'll slap you on the back,
And almost knock you silly, as he hollers, "Are you back?"
Foolish question, and to answer in that line,
“Oh no, I haven't got back; why, I’m at Bingen on the Rhine.
I’m traveling in Europe. I won't be back till May.”
Now that's a foolish question that you'll hear most every day.
And then most every morning there is someone round the place
Who sees you take the shaving brush and lather up your face,
And as you give the razor a preliminary wave,
The fool will always ask you, "Are you going to take a shave?"
Foolish question, and your answer is I hope,
“No I’m really not at all prepared for shaving - but I like the taste of soap.
I just like to take the shaving brush and paint myself this way.”
Now that's a foolish question that you'll hear most every day.
And then you all have met the man who stops you on the way
And asks you where you're going and then listens while you say
You are going to the funeral of poor old Brother Ned
Then as soon as you have told him, he will say, "Why, is he dead?"
Foolish question, and you might as well reply,
“No, he always thought he'd have a funeral, then after awhile he'd die—
Brother Ned was so original that he wanted it that way.”
Now that's a foolish question that you'll hear most every day.
Or if you should have a caller, say some afternoon at five,
And as you sit conversing if the doctor should arrive,
Would your visitor be silent, do you think that she'd be still,
Or when she saw the doctor would she say, “Is someone ill?”
Foolish question, and you answer with a shrug,
“No there's no one ill, we simply have the doctor come to beat the parlor rug. Sometimes too, he tunes the grand piano when we want the thing to play,”
Now that's a foolish question that you'll hear most every day.
Supposing that an elevator boy forgot to close the door,
And you should tumble down the shaft past twenty-seven floors.
And as you reach the bottom and are lying quite inert
The first one that approaches will exclaim, "Why, are you hurt?"
Foolish question, and your dying words are, “No,
I was in awful rush, and this elevator runs too bloomin’ slow.
Some people even take the stairs, but I hurried down this way,”
Now that's a foolish question that you'll hear most every day.
Little Ah Sid
Little Ah Sid was a Chinese kid
A cute little boy, you'd declare.
With eyes full of fun and a nose that begun
Right up in the roots of his hair.
Jolly and fat was this frolicsome brat
As he played through the long summer day
Braiding his queue as his father used to
In China land far, far away.
Once over the lawn that Ah Sid played upon
A bumblebee flew in the spring.
Ah, "Melican bullafly" said he with a winking eye.
"Me catchie and pull off um wing."
And so with his hat, he struck it a rap
That innocent bumble bee
And put its remains in the seat of his jeans,
For a pocket there had the Chinee.
Then down on the green sat that little sardine
With a smile that was strangely demure,
And said with a grin that was brimful of sin,
"Me mashee um bullafly sure."
Now little Ah Sid was only a kid
Nor could you expect him to guess
What kind of a bug he was holding so snug
In the folds of his loose fitting dress.
"Ki yi, yip kip gee" Ah Sid cried
As he rose hurriedly up from the spot
"Ki yi, yubican, damn um Melican man,
That bullafly velly much hot!"
Oh, Mr. Gallagher
Oh, Mr. Gallagher, Oh, Mr. Gallagher,
What is on your mind this morning, Mr. Green?
Everybody's making fun of the way the country's run
And they think we'll soon be living European.
Oh, Mr. Green, Oh, Mr. Green,
Cost of living's gone so high that it's cheaper now to die.
Don't you think so Mr. Gallagher?
Absolutely, Mr. Green.
Oh, Mr. Gallagher, Oh, Mr. Gallagher,
Once I thought I saw you save a lady's life.
On a rowboat out to sea, you're a hero now to me,
And I thought some day you'd make that gal your wife.
Oh, Mr. Green, Oh, Mr. Green,
When she sunk I dove down like a submarine,
Pulled her out upon the shore,
Now she's mine forever more.
What, the lady, Mr. Gallagher?
No, the rowboat, Mr. Green.
One Night in Late October
One night in late October,
When I was far from sober,
Returning with my load with manly pride,
My feet began to stutter,
So I lay down in the gutter;
And a pig came near and lay down by my side.
A lady passing by was heard to say,
"You can tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses."
And the pig got up and slowly walked away.
Tommy's Old Ford Car
She is scarred as if by battle
And her fenders shake and rattle.
Like a worn out sieve, her radiator leaks.
She goes rumbling down the highways
And goes bumping through the by-ways.
Every single thing about her groans and squeaks.
Her timer is crazy
Her cylinders are lazy.
Though she seldom runs on less than one or more.
While sometimes three are working
And only one is shirking
It has been known to hit upon all four.
Through the holes torn in her cover
You can see the skies above her
And her jerky gait reminds you of a toad.
Since the day that Tommy bought her
She has been untouched by water
And the mud upon her windshield hides the road.
She's all vibrate and quiver
And there's things the matter with her
That no mechanic in the world could ever fix.
She's been run down this long while
And is ready for the junkpile.
But her glaring lights look like a super six.
Although she is no beauty
She's a bear to do her duty
And she takes Tommy where'er he wants to roam.
Though she's neither fast nor frisky
And to travel in her is risky
Still she always seems to somehow stagger home.
Sailor Jack
Sailor Jack went out one night
To get a little gin.
He went into the landlord's house,
But the landlord wasn't in.
He rapped, he rapped, he rapped, he rapped,
He rapped all night in vain;
When all of a sudden a tap, tap, tap
Upon the windowpane.
Up to the window he turned his eyes
And there a maid he spied.
He thought by the way that she tap, tap, tapped
That she would be his bride.
"Come down, come down", said Sailor Jack,
"And sit on the porch with me."
So down she came and sat on the porch
As pretty as ever, you see.
Oh, they billed and they cooed,
And they kissed and they loved,
They hugged and they squeezed,
And they turtledoved,
They honeyed and they sweetied,
And they baby-bye pet
They sparked and cuddled and there they set.
When all of a sudden here came her father
Driving the village hack.
With a roar and a beller and a "Hey, young feller,"
He started for Sailor Jack.
Jack lit out with a yip and a shout,
For life to him was sweet,
And his peg leg went tap, tap, tap,
Along the village street.
"Goodbye, my lover", the maiden cried,
“I hope you don't get killed."
The old man grabbed his pistol out
With powder and bullets filled.
Jack ran into a big fat lady
And fell in the puddle kersplash,
The old man's pistol went tap, tap, tap,
As down the road they dashed.
O, they raced and they chased
And they galloped and they crawled,
They snarled and they yelled
And they hollered and they bawled.
They dodged and they ducked
And they hopped up and down,
Back and forth
And around and around.
Jack climbed up into a tree,
And thought he'd save his skin;
But a woodpecker pecked at his old peg leg
And drove him down again.
Jack ran into a neighbor's barn.
The old man followed him in.
But the mule got sore and whaled away,
And kicked them out again.
Sailor Jack, he ran kersmack
Into the constable
Who joined the chase with the gal's old man,
The fat lady, and the mule.
They chased the sailor round and round
And around a big haystack,
The old man ran around the other way
And he grabbed poor Sailor Jack.
Oh, Jack hit her pappy, and her pappy hit back.
Their noses got bloody and their eyes got black.
They wrestled and they tussled
And they cussed and they swore.
They barked their knuckles,
And their clothes they tore.
The old mule brayed, the fat lady screamed,
The constable let out a yell.
He took the old man by the collar
And locked him in the cell.
Sailor Jack, he hurried back,
The maiden, for to wed;
But found that she had gone
And married a soldier boy instead.
Oh, poor Jack cried
And he bellered and he swore.
He grabbed him a ship
And sailed from shore.
He sailed away as fast as sin,
And that is the last they've seen of him.
The Error
or When You Take Off Your Shoes in Church
Be Sure You Look when You Put Them On
We all went down to Conference
We Relief Society friends,
The journey is so pleasant
We're sorry when it ends.
I got dressed up so fancy
In just the latest style
My hat, my dress, my shoes, and coat
I even wore a smile.
We enjoyed the morning session,
The Authorities spoke so plain,
We were taught that by our actions
Our families we can train.
As soon as it was over
We hurried down the street,
We were going to the dining room,
Our lunch we had to eat.
My shoes were fitting rather tight.
I had a brand new pair,
I thought my feet had swollen
I’d get some lower heels somewhere.
I noticed when my friend glanced down
She looked a little shocked,
So I looked too, and then I gasped,
I had the strangest walk.
I couldn't take another step,
We laughed till we thought we'd die,
My face turned red from to head to toe,
I thought I’d have to cry.
It looked so funny, but you know,
This thing I’ll not repeat,
I changed them right there on the walk
My shoes were on the wrong feet.
Barnacle Bill the Sailor
"Who's that knocking at my door?
Who's that knocking at my door?
Who's that knocking at my door?"
Cried the fair, young maiden.
"It's only me from over the sea,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"I’m all lit up like a Christmas tree,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"I’ll come down and let you in,
I’ll come down and let you in,
I’ll come down and let you in,"
Cried the fair, young maiden.
"Well, hurry before I break the door,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"I’ll hoot and rave and rant and roar,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"Tell me that we soon shall wed,
Tell me that we soon shall wed,
Tell me that we soon shall wed,"
Cried the fair, young maiden.
"I’ve got me a gal in every port,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"The single gals is what I court",
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"When will I see you again?
When will I see you again?
When will I see you again?"
Cried the fair, young maiden.
"Oh, never again, I’ll come no more,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"Tonight I’m sailin’ from the shore,"
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“And if you wait for me to come,
A sittin’, a waitin’, a suckin’ your thumb,
You'll wait until the day of your doom,”
Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor. “Goodnight!”
The Preacher and the Bear
Oh, a preacher went out a hunting, ‘twas on one Sunday morn.
Of course ‘twas against his religion, but he took his gun along.
He shot himself some very fine quail and one little measly hare,
Then on his way returning home he met a great big grisly bear.
Oh, the bear marched out in the middle of the road and waltzed to the coon, you see.
The coon got so excited that he climbed a persimmon tree.
The bear sat down upon the ground and the coon climbed out on a limb.
He cast his eyes to the Lord in the skies and these words said to him.
"Oh, Lord, didn't you deliver Daniel from the lion's den,
And deliver Jonah from the belly of the whale, and then
Three Hebrew children from the fiery furnace? So the good book do declare.
Now Lord, if you can't help me, for goodness sakes don't help that bear.
That coon stayed up in that tree - I think it was all night.
He prayed, "Now, Lord, if you help that bear,
You're going to see an awful fight."
Just about then the limb let go and the coon came tumbling down.
You should have seen him get his razor out before he struck the ground.
He hit the ground cutting right and left so he put up a very game fight
Just then the bear hugged that coon - he squeezed him a little too tight.
The coon then lost his razor but the bear held on with a vim.
So he cast his eyes to the Lord in the skies and once more said to him:
"Oh, Lord, didn't you deliver Daniel from the lion's den,
And deliver Jonah from the belly of the whale, and then
Three Hebrew children from the fiery furnace? So the good book do declare.
Please Lord, if you can't help me, for goodness sakes don't help that bear!
He Never Came Back
A soldier kissed his wife goodbye; he was going to the war.
The tears, they trickled down his face for the one he did adore.
"Be patient dear, till I return, my own true love," he cried.
Then at the Battle of Bull Run, he, like a soldier, died.
And he never came back, he never came back
And she'll see his dear face no more.
But the last words he said
Just before he dropped dead,
Were, "We'll meet on that beautiful shore."
I went into a restaurant as hungry as a bear
And like a raving maniac, I grabbed the bill of fare,
A waiter did approach me, "Bring me a steak, I pray."
He took my order, bowed his head, and slowly walked away.
And he never came back, he never came back
I waited three hours or more.
And his darn face I’ll break
If he don't bring my steak
When we meet on that beautiful shore.
I took my mother-in-law to the circus—just to have some fun.
I gave her a ride on the merry-go-round and bought her a chew of gum,
Outside there was a big balloon, which proved to be my friend.
I shoved her in and cut the rope and high she did ascend.
And she never came back, she never came back,
High up in the clouds she did soar.
She won't be here tonight
Cause she's way out of sight,
But we'll meet on that beautiful shore.
The Highwayman
By Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees;
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas;
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor;
And the highwayman came riding—riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doeskin;
They fitted with ne’er a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, his pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn yard;
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter, the landlord's red-lipped daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I’m after a prize tonight;
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burned like a brand,
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight. Oh sweet black waves in the moonlight
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A redcoat troop came marching—marching—marching—
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead;
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window, and hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say:
“Look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!”
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till now, on the stroke of midnight, cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest.
Up she stood, to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight, blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—riding—riding—
The redcoats looked to their priming. She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath;
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the westward; he did not know who stood bowed,
With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it; and slowly blanched to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love knot into her long black hair.
A Real Good Rest for Mother
By Helen Harrington
Father said, "It's Mother's Day—what say we get dinner and give our mother a good rest?" We kids thought that was fine because, after all, mother gets dinner for us the year around.
Father said, "We'll have meat loaf."
Joan said, "With fresh vegetable salad."
Billy said, "And chocolate cake with black walnuts in it!"
I am 11 and the oldest, so Father said, "Margie, you better make the cake." He got a package of meat from the freezer so it could thaw while he did chores. Billy went to the garden after salad stuff.
I asked Mother for a cookbook. She does not use a cookbook. She stirs in a little of this, shakes in some of that and everything comes out fine. So she had a time finding a recipe book—in the attic of all places.
I asked where she kept the flour, and she showed me; also where she kept the flour sifter, the chocolate, and the vanilla. She helped me a little by getting out the mixing bowl, and told Joan to crack the black walnuts outside on the step.
While I was studying how many tablespoons, teaspoons, and cups, Mother hurried the breakfast dishes out of the way, broke a couple of eggs in a bowl for me and filled the sink with water for Billy to wash the vegetables in. She took back the roast Father had got from the freezer by mistake, and brought out the meat loaf grind. She was careful to put it on the floor in the same patch of sunlight Father had picked, so he wouldn't be offended.
Joan was hollering that Billy ate the nut meats as fast as she got them picked out, so Mother helped Joan and told Billy not to do that. I creamed butter and sugar, added milk and dry ingredients alternately like the recipe said.
Father came in and announced that he was here! He said it loudly, as if nothing had been done so far but now just bring on that meat loaf.
Mother brought her big apron for me to tie around Father. She got him a bowl, the milk, the jar of bread crumbs, and an egg. Father unwrapped the meat and dumped it in the bowl while Mother mopped up some milk I’d spilled.
I turned the mixer on "fast" and batter started flying around. I could hear Father bark out commands: "Salt! Pepper! Mustard!" Mother was handing him things like a nurse obeying the surgeon in an operating room.
She said, "Billy, you're dripping all over the floor—don't put those wet carrots on the buffet!"
Father said, "Where the deuce do you keep the celery and onions?" Mother brought them, turned on the oven and set it, greased a baking dish for the meat loaf and put a paper liner in my cake pan. Father was crying over an onion, so she took over the chopping.
When everything was in the oven, I said now I must make seven-minute frosting. Mother was leaning against the wall. She said, "Let's just whip some cream for the cake. Why don't you all go to the porch for some fresh air?"
When we came back in, Mother had washed up the bowls and things and was wiping up the floor with a sponge. "Hey! We're doing the work," Father told her. "You go spruce up". So Mother did, and Father set her up to the table and we kids brought in meat loaf, salad, and cake. "Hey!" Father said, "We forgot potatoes!"
Mother said apologetically: “I baked a few, just in case—and opened up some apricots.”
Dinner looked fine. Father asked the blessing and then we all hollered, "Happy Mother's Day!" And our mother just beamed. I decided I’d better do the dishes, because Mother looked a little bushed today. In spite of that good rest we gave her!
Ain't We Crazy?
Oh, I know a little ditty; it's as crazy as can be.
The guy who wrote it didn't want it, so he handed it to me.
I found I couldn't use it, because it sounded blue,
So that is just the reason why I’m handing it to you.
It's a song the alligators sing while coming through the rye,
As they serenade the elephants up in a tree so high.
The iceman hums this ditty as he shovels in the coal,
And the monkeys join the chorus up around the northern pole.
Ain't we crazy? Ain't we crazy?
We're going to sing this song all night today.
It was midnight on the ocean, not a street car was in sight
The sun was shining brightly as it rained all day that night
'Twas a summer day in winter, and the snow was falling fast,
When a barefoot boy with shoes on stood sitting in the grass.
It was evening and the rising sun was setting in the west,
The fishes in the trees were huddled in their nest,
The rain was pouring down in drops, the moon was shining bright,
And everything that you could see was hidden out of sight.
Ain't we crazy? Ain't we crazy?
We're going to sing this song all night today.
While the organ pealed potatoes, lard was rendered by the choir,
While the sexton rung the dishrag, someone set the church on fire.
"Holy smoke!" the preacher shouted, as he somehow lost his hair,
Now his head resembles heaven for there is no parting there.
The cows were making cowslips and the bells were ringing wet,
The bumblebees were making bums and smoking cigarettes.
Then a man slept in the stable and came out a little hoarse,
So he hopped upon his golf sticks and drove all around the course.
Ain't we crazy? Ain't we crazy?
We're going to sing this song all night today.
It was midnight on the ocean, not a horse car was in sight.
When I stepped into the drugstore to get myself a light,
The man behind the counter was a woman , old and gray
Who used to peddle shoestrings on the road to Mandalay.
"Good evening Sir," the woman said, and her eyes were bright with tears,
As she put her head between her feet and stood that way for years.
Her children, six, were orphans, except one tiny tot
Who lived in a house across the street above a vacant lot.
Ain't we crazy? Ain't we crazy?
We're going to sing this song all night today.
I’m Going Back
I’m going back to where I came from,
Where the honeysuckle smells so sweet, it durn near makes you sick,
I used to think my life was humdrum,
But I sure have learned a lesson that is bound to stick.
There ain't no use in my pretendin' —
This city life just ain't no place for a guy like me to end in
Going back to where I came from,
Where the mocking bird is singing in the lilac bush.
I used to go down to the station
Every evening just to watch the Pullman train come rolling in.
And then one night, a great temptation
Got the best of me and drove me to a life of sin.
I took my hat and fourteen dollars,
And I went through all the trouble of a life that always follows
When you're rich and hunting romance,
But my hunting days are over, I can tell you that.
I met a man in Kansas City,
And he winked at me and asked me if I’d like to step around,
And I said, "Yep, that's what I’m here fer."
So he said he'd take me to the hottest spots in town.
He mentioned things he'd have to fix up,
So he took my fourteen dollars but there must have been a mixup—
He's been gone since Thursday evening,
And I’ve got a hunch I’ll never see that guy again.
When I get old and have a grandson,
I will tell him ‘bout my romance and then watch his eyes bug out.
But chances are, he won't believe me
And he'll do the same durn thing when he grows up, no doubt.
But he can't say I didn't warn him
What would happen if he meets up with that city guy— -golldarn him.
Going back to where I came from,
Where the mocking bird is singing in the lilac bush.
In the Baggage Coach Ahead
On a dark, stormy night as the train rattled on,
All the passengers had gone to bed,
Except one young man with a babe in his arms
Who sat there with a bowed down head.
The innocent one began crying just then
As though its poor heart would break,
When an angry man said, “Make that child stop its noise,
For it's keeping all of us awake.”
“Put it out,” said another, “Don't keep it in here.
We have paid for our berths and want rest.”
But never a word said the man with the child,
As he fondled it close to his breast.
“Oh where is its mother? Go take it to her,”
This a lady then softly said.
“I wish that I could,” was the man's sad reply,
“But she's dead in the coach ahead.”
While the train rolled onward, a husband sat in tears,
Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years,
For Baby's face makes pictures of a cherished hope that's dead,
But Baby's cries can't waken her in the baggage coach ahead.
Every eye filled with tears, when the story was told.
Of a wife that was faithful and true;
He told how he'd saved up his earnings for years,
Just to build up a home for two;
How when heaven had sent them this sweet little babe,
Their young happy lives were blessed,
His heart seemed to break when he mentioned her name,
And in tears tried to tell them the rest.
Every woman arose to assist with the child,
There were mothers and wives on that train;
And soon was the little one sleeping in place
With no thought of sorrow or pain.
Next morn at the station he bade all goodbye,
"God bless you," he softly said;
Each one had a story to tell in their homes
Of the baggage coach ahead.
Christmas Eve 1959
By Maurine Harrison
You get already for Christmas
With food and drink and such,
And all the family's coming home
What you've looked for so much.
The frozen water has come on
You're happy as a queen.
There's just a few more things to buy
For old Saint Nick to bring.
Then you get that darned old side pain.
Well, you'll just pretend it's gone.
There's no time now to notice that
With Christmas coming on.
You'll just lie down and rest a bit
It sure will not last long
And you can plan what to do at Eve,
With scripture, poem, and song.
You lie a minute - Oooh what's that?
It must be getting worse.
You hold as still as possible
That pain may soon reverse.
But when it doesn't, then you relent
And go see Doctor Worthen.
You apologize to all the staff
For being such a burden.
They all reply that "It's alright,
Just in the line of duty."
You're treated as well as a millionaire
Or some important beauty.
There's lots of things we've got to show
Before it gets too late,
And one of them is gratitude
For how hospitals operate.
Springtime Friends
By Maurine Harrison
Friends made in Spring are truest friends of all
Than found in Summer, Winter or in Fall,
And friends you make before the month of May
Get truer every day.
You came to me in Springtime, as you know
When all the buds and blossoms were aglow.
Birds in the trees were singing melody,
Specially for you and me.
We love our friends. We'll greet them with a smile
We'll shake their hand and in a little while
They'll walk with us and be sincerely true
In everything they do.
Trust in your friends and give them all your love.
Teach them to see the bright sky up above.
You'll stay with them in weather - sun or storm,
And help them keep from harm.
So, in the Spring, make all the friends you can
Be they a child, a woman or a man,
And you'll agree to this delightful theme –
“Best friends are made in Spring.”
When I Have Time
By Maurine Harrison
I wondered what I'd write about. I thought of everything.
I thought of birds. I thought of bees, and cattails in the spring.
I thought of all my family. NaDee's such a good cook.
Darlene's generosity, Marilyn's home, and the others I didn't overlook.
And I thought of all my lovely friends and what they mean to me,
And flowers, fruits, and grains, and trees. I'm so glad that I can see.
I'll write of each one separately. I'll make a little rhyme.
I'll write of everything I love. That is, when I have time.
A Modern Lochinvar or The Redhead and the Farmer
By Maurine Harrison
Oh, Young Martindale has come out of the West.
Throughout all of Idaho his line is best.
And save his broad shoulders, he weapons had none.
He rode all unarmed but he rode not alone.
For there just beside him sat Dora Mae Taylor.
He thought that tonight he'd surely not fail her.
He had her out last night to their favorite nooks,
But he was due for a test; so had brought all his books.
She was thinking of lovebirds and bright diamond rings.
He was thinking of horses and crops and such things.
But that was all last night and now he'd do better.
He'd been wanting to ask since the day that he met her.
Just out of the Navy, he started to school
He had done very well. He was nobody's fool.
Now to ask her the question—Oh, dear, what to say—
It is not always easy to be witty and gay.
He hemmed and he hawed and he said, "Gosh, oh, gee."
And finally he blurted, "Will you marry me?"
She said, "Why, yes, darling, and surprised I am not
Thought I'd have to ask you if married we got,
"We'll go ask my mother and then tell my dad,
Cause he pays the bills and he'd be very sad
If we went and got married and not tell him a thing
Of our love for each other. Let's go buy the ring.
"The wedding we'll plan for late June, shall we Loye?"
But the plans they then changed to sometime in July.
This terrible waiting—it got worse and worse,
But they finally got married on August the first.
Let the Sun Shine In
Mommy told me something a little girl should know,
It's all about the devil and I've learned to hate him so.
She said he causes trouble when you let him in the room,
He will never ever leave you if your heart is filled with gloom.
Chorus
So let the sun shine in, face it with a grin,
Smilers never lose and frowners never win.
So let the sun shine in, face it with a grin,
Open up your heart and let the sun shine in.
When you are unhappy, the devil wears a grin,
But oh, he starts to running when the light comes pouring in.
I know he'll be unhappy cause I'll never wear a frown,
Maybe if we keep on smiling, he'll get tired of hanging round.
- Chorus -
If I forget to say my prayers the devil jumps with glee,
But he feels so awful, awful when he sees me on my knees.
So if you're full of trouble and you never seem to win,
Just open up your heart and let the sun shine in.
Be what you seem to be — or never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been or would have appeared to them to be otherwise.
You sing a little song or two, you have a little chat
You make a little candy fudge, and then you take your hat,
You hold her hand and say "Goodnight" as sweetly as you can,
Ain’t that a heck of an evening for a great big healthy man?
He kissed her in the garden, As the moon was shining bright,
She was a marble statue, and he was drunk that night.
The Night after Christmas
by Dennis Harrison
‘Twas the night after Christmas
And all through the house
Every creature was restless
Even the mouse.
The stockings were torn
From the chimney without care
And candy and nuts
Were thrown everywhere.
Tommy was lying
Unsnug in his bed
Wishing his firetruck
Was black and not red.
All the relatives were there
And I'm glad there weren't more
Cause Mother and I
Had to sleep on the floor.
Mother and I lay
On our very poor bed
While visions of bills unpaid
Danced through my head.
For most people Christmas
Is a time of good cheer
But I'm glad that Christmas
Only comes once a year.
Junior Sunday School
by Maurine T. Harrison
I like my Junior Sunday School.
I never miss a one.
We sing the songs all children love
We have all kinds of fun.
We have our turn to say the prayer
Or to give a little talk
Or to say the gem for Sacrament
We all like that a lot.
We have a little pulpit
And for children who are small
We have a stool to stand on
And then they can be tall.
We learn about the gospel
And how to be kind and good.
We learn about the pioneers
And everything we should.
We have the nicest leaders
Who spend time to prepare
A lot of lessons for us
We're glad they're always there.
I'll bet you wish that you could go
To Junior Sunday School
And hear the gospel like we do
And learn the Golden Rule.
Great Grandma's Apron
by Maurine Harrison
When I was a little girl
It always seemed to me
That Grandma wore an apron
And 'twas neat as it could be.
The first thing in the morning
When she just got out of bed
She dressed and tied her apron
Even before her prayers were said.
She would turn the back part frontward
And tie the strings so neat
It had to be just perfect
Or the process she'd repeat.
Grandma was a woman doctor
And went from door to door
Helping ease pain and sorrow
Said that's what she was for.
You never found her hurried
Or hardly ever vexed
Everything she took in stride
And was ready for what came next.
Now since she has been gone to rest
These many many years
Time has seemed to take away
Our sorrows and our tears.
I hope my grandma's happy there
Where all the angels sing.
I think what a blessing to be tied
To my Grandma's apron string.
Long was the road to Bethlehem
Where Joseph and his Mary came
They are travelworn, and the day grows late
When they reach the town with its towered gate.
The City of David's royal line
And the stars at eve are beginning to shine.
They must find a place where the poor may rest,
For Mary is weary and overpressed.
And it is the 6th hour.
They came to a house and knocked on the door,
Asking a little shelter,
No more than a humble shelter in their need.
The innkeeper gives them scanty heed.
Little for strangers does he care.
His house is crowded; they must seek elsewhere.
Fearing to find no place that day,
Heavy at heart, they turn away.
And it is the 7th hour.
In weariness and sore perplexed,
To a larger house they venture next,
Where Joseph for pity sakes begs again
Lodging for Mary in her pain.
They are poor Galileans, plain to behold,
Their garments are worn, their sandals are old.
But the fat innkeeper jingles his keys
And refuses shelter to such as these.
And it is the 9th hour.
Where next they turn the woman is kind.
The place is crowded, still she will find
Room for them somehow. Moved by the sight
Of this gentle girl in her urgent plight.
Who tells of her home and her strength, far spent,
And it seems to her woman's heart, God sent.
But the surly landlord roars in wrath
And sends them forth on their lonely path.
And it is the 11th hour.
Still seeking a place to lay them down,
They come at length to the edge of town
To a cattle barn with a sagging door,
Thankful for only a stable floor.
And the gray old donkey crowds to the wall
To make them room in his straw-laid stall,
And the cattle low at the stifled wail
Of a woman's voice in sore travail.
It is midnight and Mary's hour.
Over the place a great new star
Sheds wonder and glory beheld afar,
While all through the height of heaven there flies
The word of an angel's voice who cries,
"Glory to God this wondrous morn,
On earth, the Savior, Christ, is born."
From Manger to Mansion
by Joseph W. Booth
If my lot be a lowly manger,
Or if mine be treasures rare,
Then help me, O Lord, past the danger
Both of want, and of wealth with its care.
If I'm forced to flee into Egypt
To escape old Herod's wrath
Give me strength to return through the desert
To my future abode - Nazareth.
If I wander away from my parents
And meet doctors and scribes all around,
May my words, in both questions and answers,
Be not fickle, but wise and profound.
If I'm out in the desert and tempted
By Satan while I hunger and thirst,
Help me choose not the mere bread to live by,
But remind me that God's word is first.
If I'm led to the brow of destruction,
To be hurled to my death anon,
If it be not my hour to meet it,
Help me pass through the midst and be gone.
If the tempest endanger my brother,
And arouse me from rest and from sleep,
Let me calmly and lovingly aid him
To quiet the wind and the deep.
If some day I'm found beyond Jordan
With a multitude hungry for bread,
Though I have but two loaves and some fishes,
Let me share mine, that all may be fed.
If the noise and cries of dear children
Are, to others, annoying, I see,
Let me give them a kiss and a blessing
And bid them all, “Come unto me.”
If the rabble surround me, and clamor
With bloodthirsty mien for my life,
Help me Lord, to behave with composure,
And give them no cause for the strife.
If I see those defiling the Temple
Who are buying and selling with fraud,
May I ever be valiant, O Father,
In defending the House of my God.
If I pray in Gethsemane's garden,
While others near by me sleep on,
May no agony quench my desire
To pray, "Father, Thy will be done."
If I must climb the slopes of Golgotha,
And sink 'neath the cross on the road;
God bless the dear friend who relieves me,
And helps thus to lighten my load.
Though the cross be the end of my journey,
Yet I know that my spirit shall live;
While my flesh cries, "Why hast Thou forsaken?"
Let my soul plead, "O Father, forgive."
No Quitting
How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?
You can talk of pluck, it's an easy word
And where'er you go it is often heard
But can you tell to a jot or a guess
Just how much courage you now possess?
Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out
Nor prate to man your courage stout
For it’s easy enough to retain a grin
In the midst of a fight you are apt to win
But the sort of grit it is good to own
Is the stuff you need when you are all alone.
How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you turn from the joys you like a lot?
Have you ever tested yourself enough to know
Just how far with yourself your will can go?
If you want to know whether or not you've got grit
Just pick out a joy you like and quit.
It is bully sport and its open fight
It will keep you busy both day and night
For the toughest kind of a game you'll find
Is to make your body obey your mind.
You will never know what is meant by grit
Unless there's something you've tried to quit.
Not Fit to be Kissed
''What ails papa's mouf?" said a sweet little girl,
Her bright laugh revealing her teeth white as pearl;
"I love him and kiss him, and sit on his knee,
But the kisses don't smell good when he kisses me.
"Now mamma," her eyes op'ning wide as she spoke,
"Do you like nasty kisses of 'bacco and smoke?
They might do for boys, but for ladies and girls
I don't think them nice!" then she tossed her bright curls.
"Don't nobody's papa have a mouf nice and clean,
With kisses like yours, mamma? That's what I mean;
I want to kiss papa, I love him so well!
But kisses don't taste good that have such a smell.
"It's nasty to smoke and eat 'bacco, and spit,
And the kisses ain't good and sweet, not a bit;"
And her innocent face wore a look of disgust
As she gave out her verdict, so earnest and just.
Yes, yes, little darling! Your wisdom has seen
That kisses for daughters and wives should be clean;
For kisses lose something of nectar and bliss
From mouths that are stained and unfit for a kiss.
J. H. W.
When the Frost is on the Pumpkin
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and the gobble of the strutting turkey cock,
And the clackin' of the guineas, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the roosters hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then the time a feller is a feelin’ at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock.
There's something kinda hardy-like about the atmosphere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin’ fall is here-
Of course we miss the flowers and the blossoms on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin'birds and buzzin' of the bees
But the air's so appetizing, and the landscape through the haze,
Of a crisp, and sunny morning of the early autumn days
Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty rustle of the tassels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled weed as golden as the morn.
The stubble in the furries - kinda lonesome-like but still
A preachin' sermons to us of the barns they grow to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed
The hosses in their stalls below — the clover overhead!
O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
Then your apples all is gathered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider makin's over, and your winner’n folks is through
With their mince and apple butter, and their sauce and sausage, too!
I don't know how to tell it—but if such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to ‘commodate ‘em all — the whole endurin’ flock —
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock.
James Witcomb Riley
If Jesus Came to Your House
If Jesus came to your house to spend a day or two
If he came unexpectedly, I wonder what you'd do,
Oh, I know you'd give your nicest room to such an honored guest
And all the food you'd serve to Him would be the very best.
And you would keep assuring Him you're glad to have Him there –
That serving Him in your home is joy beyond compare.
But—when you saw Him coming, would you meet Him at the door
With arms outstretched in welcome to your heavenly visitor?
Or would you have to change your clothes before you let Him in,
Or hide some magazines and put the Bible where they'd been?
Would you turn off the radio and hope He hadn't heard,
And wish you hadn't uttered that last, loud, hasty word?
Would you hide your worldly music and get some hymn books out?
Could you let Jesus walk right in or would you rush about?
And I wonder if the Savior spent a day or two with you
Would you go right on doing the things you always do?
Would you go right on saying the things you always say?
Would life for you continue as it does from day to day?
Would your family conversation keep its usual pace?
And would you find it hard each meal to say a table grace?
Would you sing the songs you always sing? And read the books you read,
And let Him know the things on which your mind and spirit feed?
Would you take Jesus with you everywhere you planned to go?
Or would you, maybe change your plans for just a day or so?
Would you be glad to have Him meet your very closest friends,
Or would you hope they'd stay away until his visit ends!
Would you be glad to have Him stay forever on and on,
Or would you sigh with great relief when He at last was gone?
O, it might be interesting to know the things that you would do,
If Jesus came in person to spend some time with you.
Try Again
‘Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try Again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try Again;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, Never fear,
Try again.
Once or twice, though you should fail,
Try again;
If you would at last prevail,
Try again;
If we strive, 'tis no disgrace-
Though we do not win the race;
What should we do in that case?
Try again.
If you find your task is hard,
Try again;
Time will bring you your reward,
Try again;
All that other folk can do,
Why, with patience, may not you?
Only keep this rule in view,
Try again.
William Edward Hickson
Oversleeping
When you wake up in the morning, and you've over-slept an hour,
And you hear the school bell ringing, In the far-off distant tower,
And your eyes are hard to open, and your tongue feels big as four,
You can bet your last half dollar, you've been out the night before.
Emma Hill
Old Ironsides
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down,
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannons’ roar;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave!
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to her mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail;
And give her to the God of storm,
The lightning and the gale.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
There was a Man in Our Town
There was a man in our town,
And wondrous wise was he.
He had an axe; with many whacks,
He soon cut down a tree.
And when he saw the tree was down,
With all his might and main,
He straight-wise took another axe
And chopped it up again.
The Boy and the Schoolmaster
by Edward J. Wheeler
You've quizzed me often, you've puzzled me long,
You've asked me to cipher and spell,
You've called me a dunce, if I’ve answered wrong,
Or a dolt if I failed to tell
Just when to say lie and when to say lay,
Or what nine-sevenths may make,
Or the longitude of Kamkathama Bay,
Or the I-forget-what’s-its-name lake.
So I think it's about my turn I do,
To ask a question or so of you.
The schoolmaster grim, he opened his eyes,
But said not a word for sheer surprise.
Can you tell where the nest of the oriole swings,
Or the color its eggs may be?
Do you know the time when the squirrel brings
Its young from its nest in the tree?
Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready to drop,
Or where the best hazelnuts grow?
Can you climb a tree to the very tip-top,
Then gaze without trembling below?
Can you swim or dive, can you jump or run,
Or do anything else we boys call fun?
The master's voice trembled as he replied,
"You are right, my son; I'm the dunce, he sighed.
Lochinvar
by Sir Walter Scott
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide border his steed is the best;
And save his good broad sword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone
He swam the Esk River where ford there was none
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented; the gallant came late.
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen & kinsmen & brothers & all;
For spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
For the poor craven bridegroom, said never a word,
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied,
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide
And not am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand 'ere her mother could bar
"Now tread me a measure" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!'
"She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scour,
They'll have fleet steeds to follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Grames of the Netherby clan
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran
There was racing and chasing on Cannabie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby, ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Out Where the West Begins
Out where the handclasp's a little stronger,
Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
That's where the West begins;
Out where the sun is a little brighter;
Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,
That's where the West begins.
Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
Out where friendship's a little truer,
That's where the West begins;
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing
Where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing
Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing,
That's where the West begins.
Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts with despair are breaking,
That's where the West begins;
Where there's more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there's more of giving and less of buying
And a man makes friends without half trying,
That's where the West begins.
Arthur Chapman
Unheard of Death
I woke to look upon a face,
So silent, white and cold;
Old friend, the agony I felt,
Can never truly be told.
We'd lived together but a year,
Too soon it seemed to me;
Those gentle hands outstretched and still,
That toiled so hard for me.
My waking thoughts had been of one,
Who now to sleep has dropped;
It's hard to realize, old friend,
My Ingersoll has stopped.
Here's water, pure water,
It's good for us all;
The soldier, the sailor,
The great and the small.
Brave lad and fair lassie,
Be it ever so fine;
There's nothing like water
For your health and mine.
A Similar Case
Jack, I hear you've gone and done it,
Yes, I know; most fellows will;
Went and tried it once myself, Sir;
Though you see I'm single still.
And you met her did you tell me,
Down at Newport last July,
And resolved to ask the question
At a party? So did I.
I suppose you left the ballroom
With its music and its light;
For they say love’s flame is brightened
In the darkness of the night.
Well, you walked along together,
Overhead the starlit sky;
And I'll bet - old man, confess it –
You were frightened. So was I.
So you strolled along the terrace,
Saw the summer moonlight pour
All its radiance on the waters,
As they rippled on the shore,
Till at length you gathered courage,
When you saw that none was night
Did you draw her close and tell her,
That you loved her? So did I.
Well, I needn't ask you further,
And I'm sure I wish you joy.
Think I'll wander down and see you
When your married - eh, my boy?
When the honeymoon is over,
And you’re settled down, we'll try—
What? The deuce you say!
Rejected - you rejected? So was I.
I saw a cow slip through the fence,
A horse fly in the store,
I saw a board walk up the street,
A stone step by the door.
I saw the mill race up the road,
A morning break the gloom.
I saw a night fall on the lawn,
A clock run in the room.
A Lady Shifts Gears
Today the earth trembled, today the world shook,
I rushed from my office, half fearful to look
I guessed by the tumult, I thought from the din,
The sun had blown up, or the sky fallen in.
But still in the heavens the sun was a-shine,
The hills were intact, and the buildings in line
And then I beheld what had tortured my ears:
I saw that a lady had just shifted gears.
How tender is woman, how gentle, how fair,
How lovely her manner, how dainty her air.
Her voice is like velvet, each word a caress;
How gentle is woman - that is more or less.
Her speech is like music and when we have heard
The Song of a woman we look for a bird.
The earth all around us like heaven appears,
Then all of a sudden, the lady shifts gears.
The women I know are no worse than the men;
They ought to be better, I say it again.
And when you've the lever held tight in your palm
Oh, then for a moment, dear lady, be calm.
Your engine must idle a second or two;
A twist of the wrist and the business is through
For, if there's a time to be gentle, my dears,
It's certainly then — when a lady shifts gears.
Douglas Malloch
Hard Luck
He sits apart, the dance goes on,
With saddened gaze he eyes the throng
Nor answered he, but sighed aloud,
When asked to join the merry crowd.
There he must sit alone, forlorn,
Till lights and dancers all have gone
The cause - he's wrecked by one he trusted,
His last suspender button's busted.
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and the evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of time and place,
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
Alfred Tennyson
The Captain's Daughter
We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep —
It was midnight on the ocean
And the storm was on the deep.
It’s a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast."
So we shuddered there in silence —
And the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring
And the breakers talked of death.
As thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy at his prayers,
"We are lost," the captain shouted
As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.
James T. Fields
Little Boy Blue
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was, when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier was passing fair
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
"Now don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And while he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through
In the dust of the little chair,
What has become of Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.
Eugene Field
Song of the Lazy Farmer
My neighbor grumbles ev'ry day
About the tax he has to pay,
They tax him on his gasoline,
On ev'ry gadget and machine
Around the place, there ain't a thing
He don't pay taxes on, by jing.
A sales tax on the things he buys
Adds up to quite a big surprise,
When all the rest is added up,
There still are taxes on his pup.
And then, when all is said and done,
If he should make a little mon,
And save it for a rainy day,
he has an income tax to pay.
If he should die, through quirk of fate,
Then there's a tax on his estate
There ain't a time, in life or death,
When he can draw a tax-free breath;
By hook or crook, the government
Will get its share of ev'ry cent.
I tell my neighbor not to fret
About the taxes on his sweat,
I'd rather live right here, by heck,
Pay taxes till it breaks my neck
Than in some foreign land to be
With neither thought nor action free.
Although the taxes are spread thick,
We still are free to cuss and kick.
There ain't no Kremlin Joe to clamp
Us into concentration camp,
We're free to cuss the government
About the money it has spent.
If we don't like the things it’s done,
We just vote others in to run
The country, so I say the facts
Are that we're buying with our tax,
Our liberty, and I'll think twice,
Before I'll kick about the price.
A Scrambled Radio Receipt
(My mother cut this out of a magazine in about 1930, just after radios became common in most homes.)
Some judgement is required in copying recipes taken over the radio. A young bride asked her husband to take down a certain recipe given over the radio. Un-fortunately, the receiver was getting two stations at once, one the desired recipe and the other directions for sitting up exercises. Here is what he got:
Hands on hips, place one cup of flour on shoulder. Raise knees and depress toes and wash thoroughly in one-half cup of milk. In four counts raise and lower the legs and mash two hard-boiled eggs through a sieve. Repeat six times. Inhale one half teaspoon baking powder and one cup flour. Breathe naturally, exhale and sift.
Attention! Jump to a squatting position and bend white of egg backward and forward in four counts. Make a stiff dough that will stretch at the waist. Lie flat on the floor and roll into a marble the size of a walnut. Hop to a standstill, and boil in hot water, but do not boil into a gallop afterwards.
Breathe naturally and dress in warm flannels and serve with fish soup.
The sweetest rest rewards the worker who completes the task he did not wish to do.
The best reply to make to one who gives an order is “It’s done.”
Act first; then tell of mountains cleft asunder;
The lightening strikes before we hear the thunder.
Men buy success by giving up a host of things they want for what they want the most.
When I Have Time
When I have time,
So many things I'll do, to make life happier and more fair
For those whose lives are crowded now with care,
I'll help to lift them from their low despair,
When I have time.
When I have time,
The friend I love so well shall know no more those weary toiling days
I'll lead his feet in pleasure paths always,
And cheer his heart with words of sweetest praise,
When I have time.
When you have time,
The friend you hold so dear, may be beyond the reach of all your sweet intent;
May never know that you so kindly meant
To fill his life with sweet content
When you had time.
Now is the time!
Ah friend, no longer wait, To scatter living deeds and words of cheer
To those around whose lives are now so drear,
They may not meet you in the coming year
Now is the time.
The Gingham Dog and The Calico Cat
By Eugene Field
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
‘Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink.
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate,
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat (I wasn't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese Plate!)
The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the Old Dutch clock in the chimney place
Put up its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind: I'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true.)
The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh dear! What shall we do?"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that.
Employing every tooth and claw,
In the awfullest way you ever saw ——
And, oh! How the gingham and calico flew! (Don't fancy I exaggerate —
I got my news from the Chinese plate.)
Next morning, where the two had sat,
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
that burglars stole that pair away.
But the truth about the cat and pup,
Is this: They ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)
Shine Where You Are
by Raymond Orner
We can't all be a beacon light,
To shine far out to sea,
But there's a spot we can make bright,
Where'er we chance to be.
We can't all be a star on high,
To shine many millions of miles
But wherever we are, we still can try
To brighten some path with smiles.
We can't all be rich with rubies and gold,
With servants at our command
But we can be rich in joys untold,
What else could be more grand?
We can't all be what we'd choose to be;
Fate has other things in store
Yet day after day, for you and me,
There are blessings by the score.
Weight Lifter
You can carry a pack if it's strapped to your back;
You can carry a weight in your hands.
You can carry a bundle on top of your head,
As they do in other lands.
A load is light if you carry it right
Though it weighs as much as a boulder,
But a tiny chip is too heavy to bear
If you carry it on your shoulder.
Getting Ready for School
Oh, where is my hat? It is taken away,
My shoestrings are all in a knot;
I can't find a thing where it should be today,
Though I've hunted in every spot.
My slate and my pencil can nowhere be found
Though I placed them as safe as could be,
While my books and my maps are scattered around,
They hop about just like a flea.
Do, Lucy, just look for my atlas upstairs,
My reader is somewhere there too;
And, sister, just brush down those troublesome hairs,
And, Mother, please fasten my shoes.
And sister, ask father to write an excuse
But stop, he will only say, "No,"
And go on with a smile, and keep reading the news
While everything troubles me so.
The town clock will strike in a minute, I fear,
Then away to the foot I must sink;
There! Look at my arithmetic tumbled down there,
And my geography covered with ink.
I wish I'd not lingered at breakfast the last,
Though the toast and the butter were fine;
I think that Edward must eat pretty fast
To be off when I haven't done mine.
Now Edward and Henry protest they won't wait
And beat the door with their sticks,
I suppose they will say I was dressing too late,
Tomorrow I'll be up at six.
Johnny's History Lesson
I think of all the things at school
A boy has got to do
That studying hist'ry as a rule
Is worse of all; Don't you?
Of dates that are an awful sight,
And tho I study day and night
There's only one I've got just right—
That’s 1492.
Columbus crossed the Delaware in 1492—
We whipped the British fair and square in 1492.
At Concord and at Lexington
We kept the redcoats on the run
While the band played Johnny get your gun,
In 1492.
The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock in 1492,
And the Indians standing on the dock asked: What are you goin' to do?
And they said: We seek your harbor drear
That our children's, children’s, children dear
May boast that their forefathers landed here
In 1492.
Miss Pocahontas saved the life in 1492
Of John Smith and became his wife in 1492.
And the Smith tribe started then and there
And now there are John Smiths everywhere
But they didn't have any Smiths to spare
In 1492.
Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone in 1492,
And I think the cow jumped over the moon in 1492.
Ben Franklin flew his kite on high
And drew the light-ning from the sky
And Washington couldn't tell a lie
In 1492.
(Aunt Esther Tippets used to say this poem when she was a child.)
The Goose
Poor Friar Philip lost his wife,
The pride and comfort of his life.
He mourned her not like modern men,
Ladies were worth having then.
Philip grieved and looked so ill,
The doctor hoped to make a bill.
He had a son now you must know
About a twelve month old or so.
He Philip snatched up in his arms,
To protect him from all female charms
Intending he should never know,
There were such things as girls below.
But live an honest hermit's life,
Lest he likewise might lose his wife.
The place he chose for his retreat,
Was once a lion’s county seat.
Far in the wild romantic wood
The hermit's little cottage stood.
‘Twas here our little hermit grew,
His father taught him all he knew.
Adopting like a cheerful sage
His lessons to the pupil’s age.
At five to blow upon a reed,
Say his prayers and get the creed.
At ten he lectured him on herbs,
Better than learning nouns and verbs.
At fifteen years he turned his eyes
To view the wonders of the skies.
Called all the stars by their right names
As you would call on John or James.
He told him all the signs above,
But not one whisper about love.
Now his sixteenth year was coming nigh,
And yet he had not learned to sigh.
Had sleep and appetite to spare,
But did not know the word of care.
And all because he did not know
There were such things as girls below.
But now a tempest raged around,
The hermit's little nest was drowned.
The flood, lightning, thunder pop,
It did not leave a turnip top.
Poor Philip grieved and his son too,
They didn't know just what to do.
If they were hermits they must live,
And wolves have little alms to give
Now in his native town he knew
He had disciples, rich ones too.
Who would not let him beg in vain,
But set the hermit up again.
What to do with his young son,
The thing to stump most anyone
Was first.
Take him to town he was afraid,
For what if he should see a maid.
In love as sure as he had eyes,
And perhaps any quantity or size.
Leave him at home the wolves and bears,
Poor Philip had a father's fears.
Sure now he knew not what to do,
But at last decided to take him too.
So brushed his silver coat of gray,
And now you see them on the way.
It was a town you'll all agree,
Where there was everything to see.
Our little lad you may suppose,
Had never seen so many shows.
But now he sees one charming thing,
Young ladies speaking praise, sweet things,
Everybody knows.
“What is that? What is that? Oh, heaven,” he cries,
“That looks so sweetly with its eyes.”
Poor Philip knew not what to say,
He tried to turn his eyes away.
“Shall I catch it? Is it tame?
What is it, Father? What's its name?”
Well, Pa then let his wits go loose,
“It is a bird, men call it a goose.”
“A goose, oh, pretty, pretty thing,
And will it sing, too, will it sing?
Come, come quickly let us run,
Please Father, catch me one.
“We will take it with us to our cell,
Indeed, indeed, I shall treat it well.”
Punctuation
An old, old man once said to me;
I've dug a well, at the top of a tree
I've found a nest, in the Caspian Sea
I've caught a fish, in a cup of tea
I've put some sugar, in the air
I've seen a kite, inside a pear
I've found a worm, with twelve false teeth
I eat my meat, with a holly wreath
I decorate my home, with cheese
I catch the mice, upon my knees
I do declare the truth. You'll see
If you punctuate this carefully.
At the Crossroads
He stood at the crossroads all alone,
The sunrise in his face;
He had no thought for the world unknown,
He was set for a manly race.
But the road stretched east and the road stretched west
And the boy knew not which road was best.
So he strolled on the road that led him down,
And he lost the race and the victor's crown.
He was caught at last in an angry snare,
Because no one stood at the crossroads there
To show him the better road.
Another day at the self-same place,
A boy with high hopes stood;
He, too, was set for a manly race,
He, too, was seeking the things that were good.
But one was there who the roads did know,
And that one showed him which way to go;
So he turned from the road that would lead him down,
And he won the race and the victor's crown.
He walks today the highway fair,
Because one stood at the crossroads there
To show him the better road.
Note from Mom
Daughter of the universe,
Child of the atom age,
Goddess of Aquarius,
Dancer on the stage,
Daffodil or buttercup,
Chaser of a dream,
May I ask one thing of you,
Before I have to scream?
Gymnast, jumper, acrobat,
Gazer on the moon,
Would you mind so terribly
To PLEASE clean up your room?
Charlene F. Williams
Squire Perkins says: "The average girl would rather have beauty than brains, 'cause the average man can see better'n he can think."
If Columbus had turned back after 65 days of sailing on uncharted seas, no one would have blamed him. But then, no one would have remembered him either.
When you are average, you are as close to the bottom as you are to the top.
Written by Maurine for NaDee's 2 1/2 minute talk
Last week when Daddy got our Christmas tree he brought an extra one and gave it to Lavere Johns in Afton.
Someone had already given him one so he decided to take the tree down to some of his relatives in Salt Lake City when he went on the truck.
He stopped in Brigham City and while standing by the truck he saw two children about 5 and 7 coming down the street pulling a little wagon. It seems that it was the girl’s turn to ask so when they got to Mr. Johns the girl asked him if he had something they could do to earn some money to buy a Christmas tree. He questioned them a little and they told him that last year they didn't have any tree until after New Year’s when someone had thrown theirs away. The year before they just had a tiny one, but this year they wanted a big one.
The man selling trees had one he said they could have for 75 cents and they had earned 35 cents. Lavere told them he didn't have anything for them to do but he did have a tree.
The look of happiness in their faces was something that can't be de-scribed when he gave them the tree. The girl touched it to see if it was real. The offered him the 35 cents but he refused it and tried to give them some to buy trimmings for their tree, but they said they had found some in the trash last year and had saved them. They loaded it on the wagon and with the boy pulling and the little girl holding the tip up they went down the street very happy.
So tonight if Santa doesn't give us everything we have asked for, let’s think of those less fortunate than we, that might not ever have enough food or warm clothes. And let’s thank our Heavenly Father for what we have.
Christmas Poem for the Star Valley Independent (1955)
by Maurine Harrison
Winter in Star Valley is the best time of the year.
The snow so crunchy and white is a lovely thing to hear
We're coated and gloved and booted till we feel as warm as toast.
And such a lovely time for winter only Alaska or the North Pole can boast.
We do a lot of complaining when our car gets stuck in the snow,
Or when we are out in a blizzard and its 40° below,
But we'll spend our whole lives in the valley where we grow
So vigorous and strong where summer lasts only 3 months and winter is 9 months old.
The Greatest News Story of All Time
by Maurine (1960)
The greatest news story of all time, was told in the long ago
The reporter was an angel, who shepherds saw in bright glow.
Now almost 2000 years have passed since that glorious event,
But it still is making headlines, so the angel's time was well spent.
And so let us remember, the time of the Savior’s birth
And try to follow his teachings of love and peace on earth
She Finally Came
She finally came - we thought she would,
Though just a little late.
We waited long, then she arrived,
March 18, her dad's birthdate.
8 and 3/4 is what she weighed.
Though a boy was in our plan,
We think that she's the sweetest maid,
And we're naming her De Ann.
Too Many Parties and Too Many Pals
"Gentlemen of the Jury" –
The Judge's speech began
The scene was a crowded courtroom,
And the Judge was a stern old man –
"The Prisoner before you
Is a social enemy,
A Lady of the Evening –
You know the penalty.
Don't let her beauty sway you –
Don't mind her ready tears –
Don 't let her youth mislead you –
She's wise beyond her years.
Her eyes reflect the red lights,
Her cheeks are thick with paint,
But I knew her mother, Gentlemen,
Her mother was a Saint.
She isn't like her mother,
And yet she might have been,
If it hadn't been for petting parties,
Cigarettes and gin.
We took the night life off the streets
And brought it in our homes,
Our girls beat time with lipsticks
To the shriek of saxophones.
We opened up the underworld
To those we love so well,
We made her what she is today,
Shall we send her to the cell?
When you're inside that jury room,
Remember there and then,
That for every fallen woman,
There's a hundred fallen men.
Before you render verdict
On whatever she has done,
Remember there's a man to blame;
That man may be your son.
I plead with you for mercy;
The testimony stands,
That girl is my own daughter;
The case is in your hands."
The Cat and the Bird and I (or Chicken Dinner)
I saw it Christopher, know you,
And if your weren't just a cat —
But I'll be patient and show you
What good people think of all that.
Among my strange notions there lingers
A fancy, that all things that live
Whether clawed or provided with fingers,
Have a right to all this world can give.
And here you go out in the garden
And hide by a barrel — Oh fie!
With a heart so hard nothing could harden
And you look from the earth to the sky.
Your judgment was good - you did reach her,
And now you are creeping along
And drop the limp, lifeless, creature,
Without a suspicion of wrong.
What? Christopher! Winking?
You sinner! Did ever I act like that?
What was it I had for dinner? Be out of this!
Off with you! SCAT!
‘Twas a Sheep, Not a Lamb
‘Twas a sheep not a lamb that strayed away
In the parable Jesus told,
A grown-up sheep that strayed away
From the ninety and nine in the fold.
And why for the sheep should we seek
And earnestly hope and pray?
Because there is danger when sheep go wrong;
They lead the lambs astray.
Lambs will follow the sheep, you know,
Wherever the sheep may stray.
When sheep go wrong,
It won't take long
Till the lambs are as wrong as they.
And so with the sheep we earnestly plead
For the sake of the lambs today,
For when the sheep are lost,
What a terrible cost
The lambs will have to pay.
My Country
I gripe about the country and conditions I must face,
And worry about the future of the whole darn human race.
I'm mad about so many strikes, disgusted with inflation,
And disagree quite frequently with our administration.
Disgusted as I am, I say with true emotion,
So glad that I am living here and not across the ocean.
The Touch of the Master’s Hand
‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bidden, good folks?” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar a dollar, now two, only two,
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three,” but no -
From the room far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow.
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up all the strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”
And he held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two,
Two thousand, and who’ll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
And going and gone,” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand
What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply,
“The touch of a master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and torn with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,
A game, and he travels on,
He is going once, and going twice,
He’s going and almost gone.
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.